Stockings
by fury-shashka
Summary: Nobody knew the nuances.


She followed the line of his leg with the darkness of her pupils. She liked this part the best—when he was pulling it on.

The first time Ginny had convinced Draco to put on a pair of stay-up stockings, he had held her by the throat against the wall, applying just enough pressure that she could remember the fact that he had, in fact, been a recruit Death Eater, that he could probably snap her neck quickly and effortlessly and wouldn't even have to break a sweat.

"If you tell anyone," he had said, quite calmly, into her face, "I'll fucking kill you."

Ginny sat on the bed now, leaning back on her hands, dressed only in his white button-down shirt. Draco had one leg up on the duvet, his foot near her thigh, and he had his toes in the bottom of the stocking.

He looked up at her from beneath his fringe, his mouth set tight. The white-hot colour of his hair framed the deep seriousness of his eyes, the dark gold arch of his eyebrows, pointed.

The first time had been so much the same. Ginny remembered it, clearly—the way she had had to beg, literally on her hands and knees, by his feet, grabbing at the leather of his boots with her fingertips, how he had laughed at her, and then wavered, and then had demanded payment for his generosity by fucking her in the ass for an hour.

It had been worth it. To see what she had seen, how turned on she had been, how secretly abashed he had been, how he had tried to hide his arousal at first—

It would be worth it now, too.

Draco looked hard at her, as if he were making sure that she was paying attention.

"Are you?"

Had he read her mind? Ginny frowned slightly. "I am," she said.

Draco levelled another look at her, part discerning and part chiding. That was the part that she hated the most—that he could even deign to look down her like that, chide her with his eyes.

She resisted the urge to grimace, knowing that it would just incite him.

His calves were the best part. As he pulled the sheer black of the nylon over the lower part of his legs, the hardened white of his skin, the curve of his calf muscle, she felt the urge to sink her teeth into the meat there, puncturing through the silky material, the unmarred pale of dermis, the thickness underneath.

His hands were careful. Careful—one of the reasons why she was so attracted to him in the first place. Draco was meticulous; meticulous in meting out strokes with the bullwhip—the instrument that took the _most_ caution, the _most_ skill—meticulous in bringing her to orgasm even when his hands were slicked with sweat or his own come or even her blood.

It was a planned game of push-and-pull with them. A bystander wouldn't understand it. A bystander wouldn't understand that Ginny had the power, too. That she could say one thing, and Draco would drop everything, or that she could make him come just by tracing one finger, covered in her arousal, across his bottom lip.

Nobody knew the nuances.

But there were nuances in his fingertips, the way he licked his forefingers and thumbs in order to be able to properly adjust the material of the stocking, the way he rolled the nylon so that he could put his foot in without causing a run. He did it all absentmindedly, not noticing the care he was taking, and it was this that reassured Ginny the most.

Her legs were splayed awkwardly, her stance relaxed but aware. He looked up, and she saw his eyes track from her breasts to between her legs.

Draco pulled the nylon up to his knee, and met her eyes. With an ease that always startled her, he maneuvered the material over the knee and up his thigh.

Ginny sighed softly. She didn't know where her penchant for seeing her partner in women's clothes came from. She hadn't even realised it had been such a big part of her until Luna had mentioned something about making Rolf wear knickers one day, and when Ginny had pictured Draco in a pair of her black underwear, she had become so turned on that she had ran to Luna's ice box and had stuck her head in, breathing in the freezing air, cooling herself from the inside out.

God, it had been _work_ getting Draco into those knickers. He had been so angry, snapping his teeth at her like an animal, then making her bend over his knee and smacking her ass repeatedly as she cried out, mostly in arousal, her stomach pressing into the lace of the underwear that he was wearing. So what if it had been his way of asserting dominance after being slightly humiliated? She could afford him that.

His hips were narrow enough that he could wear her own underwear, which had surprised her.

He didn't have them on, now. She had made him put on the stockings first, liking the lines of his body when he was nude, with only the sheerest black of the nylon material accenting his outline, his being.

And so that was what he looked like—he straightened up and Ginny's breath was caught in her throat—he looked like some Michelangelo painting, the night light hitting his cheekbones, the length of his penis, the one bare thigh, the light being absorbed into the thigh that was covered.

"What?"

His word was low and tense, and she realised that it was the closest he was going to get to any form of insecurity.

"You look—" She couldn't finish her sentence, but he must have sensed her pleasure, because the slick confidence returned to his eyes, subtly—but there.

He pulled the other stocking up slowly, diligently adjusting the wide band that went around the top of his thigh, making sure that the material was even and snug.

"Now these," Ginny said, holding out one arm, the pair of black lace knickers hanging from her pointer finger.

Draco was still for a moment, his back straight, his eyes trained on her.

Then he moved forward quickly, taking them from her in such a swift motion that she didn't even feel the material lift or move.

He turned from her, looking back once over his shoulder, and she watched the broad white span of his back narrow down into the compact globes of his buttock, the narrowest waist, the jagged hips. When he bent over to step into the underwear, she actually hissed out loud, was granted a soft peek at the smooth scrotum between his legs as he shifted.

When Draco brought the knickers up, he shimmied as a woman might, sinuously arching his way into the fit.

The shoes had taken some time to find. Ginny had eventually had to go into Muggle London, searching the shops that catered to drag queens, to the glorious gay men that she eyed surreptitiously as she walked back. The sales attendant hadn't even balked when she had bought the pair—sized twelve, gorgeous, glistening things—and when she had brought them home to Draco he had sighed, almost resigned at first, and then had grabbed them from her, snarling.

They were shining patent—black, dangerously high, with a gleaming spike for a heel. Sometimes Draco made Ginny lick down the leather sole, right where it curved, heightened, from the toe-pad up to the heel, with the wet flat of her tongue. Sometimes she wanted to trace her tongue down the smoothness of the six-inch heel. Sometimes he let her.

Draco bent over, stepping into the heels. The tautness of his ass was amplified when he did so, the tendons creaking in his broad shoulders when he strained down to hook his fingers in the back of the cups of he heels. Ginny exhaled quietly. When he straightened, he put one foot back up on the bed.

"Fasten them."

It was an order. Ginny smiled gently and then bent over, lacing the little strap through the buckle. She did her task in silence. He watched her. When she was done, he placed the other foot in front of her, and she did the same.

When he stepped back down, Ginny breathed out slowly.

This was the best part—when the height of the heels forced his legs into a taut tension, the defined lines of his thighs, the compact curves of his calves—when they all stood out because of the flexion of his legs, the strain of his feet in the unfamiliar shoes.

He stood imperiously, with his hands planted firmly on his hips, staring back at her nearly defiantly. Her eyes tracked over the broad, black tops of the stay-up stockings, the dark lace underwear, the unbelievable, unrealistic, unparalleled long, long, long lines of his legs, hard and lean and lithe.

She wanted to kneel at his feet and trace reverent palms up the silkiness of those lengths.

"On your knees."

Again she wondered if he was using Legilimency on her, if he could read her thoughts. When she looked up at him, he had an eyebrow raised, his arms having moved to cross across his chest.

He was hard.

Ginny bit back a smile and moved off of the bed.

"Take the bloody shirt off."

And when he swore, she knew that he was reaching the end of his controlled tether.

There was more to the whole costume—they both knew it—the sometimes dress, the eyeliner that she often begged him to wear, the occasional smear of lipstick that had proven to be so messy and often ended up all over the two of them by the end of the night. There was more to the costume but she could see how hard he was through the black of the underwear—that his cock was cinched in uncomfortably, that the lace was chafing in the best way, and so she slipped the shirt off and slid to her knees at his feet.

Looking up at him from the angle she was in was like looking up at a kouros, like some god. His face slanted down to her, the hard edge of his nose defined sharper by the light of the night.

Ginny did raise her hands, flattened the palms to his skin, wrapping her fingers around his ankles. She could feel the tendons jump under his skin as he tensed at her touch. Looking up at him, she ran her hands up the silken length of his legs, lingering at his knees, along the sides of his thighs. As she reached the hardness of his arousal, cupped in lace, she inhaled deeply, smelling the deep and saline scent of him. When she reached his hips, she cradled them tenderly, kissing along the skin of his stomach, along the waistband of the knickers.

Then she continued upward, dragging her nose lightly up the centre of his stomach, his chest, along the lines of his neck.

She struggled to see his face, having to stand on her toes just to be able to reach his chin. As she tried to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, he moved silently and suddenly, picking her up from underneath, his hands cupping her buttocks, her legs locking around his waist.

As they looked at each other, face-to-face, they breathed quietly, cataloguing each other's facial features.

Then she grabbed his face and kissed him, hard. She could feel his lips open under hers, his tongue sluicing into her mouth, one of his hands coming up to grab at the back of her head, ruffling through her hair as he sought purchase on the skin of her scalp.

When they broke away from each other, Draco was panting.

He pushed her back onto the bed, all pretenses gone.

"Leave them on," she gasped, as he made to shuck off the shoes.

"Fine," Draco murmured, and shoved her to the headboard, crawling behind her, the chimerical nature of his body shocking—the female legs, the hard male torso—and so arousing that Ginny could hardly make to breathe.

When he reached her, he pushed her up against the wood of the headboard, kissing her roughly, trailing bite marks down her neck, across her breasts.

They turned, winding, over and over each other, until he was sitting up against the headboard, and she was pulling the underwear off, briefly getting them caught in the tangle and spike of his high heels.

"Ride me," he breathed as she slid back up his body, and instead of climbing into his lap, Ginny turned so that her back was to his front, and lifted a leg over him, facing his feet—facing his _legs_, the stockings, the whole mess.

When she fumbled with his cock, he wrapped a hand around her throat and one around his own length, shoving it inside of her brutally, smearing his face against the side of her neck as he began a hard thrusting rhythm, his lips dragging against her skin, his teeth bared in an animalistic grimace.

Ginny braced her hands on the sides of his thighs, but Draco wrenched them off of his legs, clasped her fingers in his own hands as he fucked her. She planted her feet on either side of him, tipped her head back, let her reactions do the speaking for her, the red curtain of her hair swaying with each rippling thrust of his.

She could feel the firmness of his scrotum hitting against her skin, the sharp breathing from behind her, could see the black spikes of his high heels digging into the bed, scrabbling for purchase on the linens, and Ginny came—she came and she came and she came, with Draco hooking a chin over her shoulder to monitor her, to make sure that she was enjoying herself, behaving herself, with his long fingers splayed across her stomach and clitoris, the strength of his legs defined through the material of the stockings.

Ginny let out hoarse cries, her head tilted back, her face up to ceiling as Draco thrust violently up into her, snarls ripped out of his throat, and then he came jerkily, his semen hot inside of her, deep. He swiped a tongue across her shoulder as he did; he dragged his mouth across her skin, his teeth catching on her shoulder blades.

She fell back against him, sliding his length out from her, stroking loving palms down his legs.

He sighed contentedly behind her as she bent from the waist, unfastened the straps of his shoes, pressed a kiss to the leather soles.


End file.
